


The Art of Disguise

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Disguise, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5644786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation (of sorts) of <i>Totus Mundus Agit Histrionem</i>, in which Holmes ends his career as a Shakespearean actor to become a detective. Lydia Bainbridge, Holmes's former on-stage paramour, brings him a curious case from her own exclusive club, which to solve he will have to infiltrate as a professional woman. Holmes is a master of disguise, and Watson is appreciative. Lots more disguise than case, here. Mostly just disguise appreciation. Holmes in a dress. The end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Disguise

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Totus Mundus Agit Histrionem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215653) by [mistyzeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo). 



> [Commission](http://mistyzeo.tumblr.com/post/132862219044/commission-me-to-write-a-fic-and-help-me-get-my) for ka95mee, who asked for something in the _Totus Mundus_ universe, with disguises. Thanks to Jaradel and 1electricpirate for beta work!

"The art of disguise," said Sherlock Holmes, "hinges on the ability to hide in plain sight."

When I met him, he was doing rather more than hiding in plain sight. He was on stage at the Lyceum Theatre, doing  _ Hamlet _ , and I was in love from the first moment I saw him. When we shook hands, he was still literally on stage, standing above me like a deity before a disciple. I'd been home from Afghanistan nearly six months, but I was still lost in the sea of London, half-drowned on land and losing faith. Sherlock Holmes, in his Danish-prince disguise, brought me home.

I have recorded the happenings of the Lyceum Theatre Murder which led to Holmes's change in profession, and someday, with some edits to protect the people involved, it might be fit to publish. Holmes embraced his new role as consulting detective with aplomb, and soon he was entertaining clients from all walks of life: fishwives and ambassadors, grooms and debutantes, scullery maids and cab drivers all graced the settee at 221B Baker Street, delivering themselves and their troubles into Holmes's care. Some cases he was able to solve without leaving his chair; some required a small mountain of shag tobacco and a few hours of silent contemplation; some necessitated a jaunt around London, inspecting scenes of crimes and digging up clues. He enjoyed elements of all of these types of cases, but the ones which required a good disguise were his favourite. He was not long out of the acting profession and his make-up kit was well stocked. His costume rack had grown rather than shrunk after  _ Hamlet _ 's untimely demise, and now took up the better part of his bedroom wardrobe. He had started to keep his everyday clothes in  _ my _ wardrobe. I was going to get him a second armoire for Christmas, just as soon as I could afford it.

He also delighted in seeing how quickly I recognised him when he was in disguise. I was his favourite audience, he said, and he took any opportunity afforded to him to test my observational skills. He was exceptionally good: he could play old men as well as young, women as well as men, and could imitate any level of society. My personal favourites were his orphaned governess, his one-legged sea captain, and his under-paid groom. He had a few tells, though, and I usually spotted the man under the make-up within a few minutes. On one occasion, however, I let an American umbrella salesman wait for Holmes for nearly half an hour before he finally took pity on me.

Other elements of his days as an actor also followed him into his new life: his friend Lydia Bainbridge and her companion Billie Wilder came to take tea with us regularly at Baker Street, though the rest of Henry Irving's company seemed to forget Holmes as soon as he did not appear for the start of the next season. Lydia brought him the week's gossip from the theatre, while I talked horse racing and politics with Wilder.

One Monday afternoon in October, as the days grew shorter and our teatime was tinged with the sunset, Lydia put down her cup and said, "I say, Sherlock."

"Yes, my dear?" Holmes was draped over his armchair with a cigarette held elegantly between his fore and middle fingers. He lifted it to his mouth and sucked, making the tip glow red, and raised an eyebrow at Lydia. His purple dressing gown was open, its sleeves hanging loose around his elbows.

"How is your little… agency going? Your puzzle solving?"

"My little agency?" Holmes snorted. "It's going very well, thank you. I've solved a hundred cases since March."

"Eighty four," I said. "You've solved eighty four since March, plus the Sterling case in January."

"Hmph," said Holmes. "I'd still say that was going well, wouldn't you? Why do you ask, Lydia?"

"Well," she said, and glanced at Wilder, as if for reassurance. Wilder inclined her head. "We were wondering if we could consult you on a little matter."

Holmes sat up and stubbed out his cigarette. "Of course!" he said. "And for you, darling girl, I will waive my usual retainer fee."

"Most generous, I'm sure," the actress said, smirking. "It's probably nothing, really, but we're just… curious."

"Begin at the beginning," Holmes commanded. He adopted what I had come to think of as his ‘consultation pose,’ his eyes half-closed and his elbows on his chair arms, his fingers together and steepled in front of his mouth. He crossed his ankles and regarded Lydia from beneath his lashes.

"Right," Lydia said, gathering her thoughts. "Wilder and I are members of a club… an exclusive club, a ladies' club, you understand."

Ladies of a certain persuasion, I thought. I didn't say it aloud: it didn't need to be said. Holmes's eyes flicked to me and he smiled faintly, as if he'd heard the thought anyway.

"Wilder noticed it first," Lydia went on, and explained the unusual circumstances to us.

"I will look into it," Holmes said, when she had finished.

"You will?"

"Oh, certainly. It does not seem to be particularly sinister, but it is nevertheless a nuisance, and you should not have to worry. I will need something from you, though."

"Anything," Lydia said.

"I will need an introduction."

"An introduction?"

"I'll need to get into the club, won't I?" Holmes was grinning. "Take me as your guest."

Lydia began to laugh. "Oh, Sherlock!" she cried. "Sherlock, my dear, sweet boy, they'll spot you in a moment."

Holmes's expression was one of deep affront. "They will not! I am very accustomed to female attire. I'm quite good at it, aren't I, Watson?"

"You are rather good," said I. "But I don't know that you'll convince a whole club full of women looking appreciatively at other women."

"They won't be  _ expecting _ an imposter," Holmes protested. "Your word should be good enough for the door… woman?"

"Sherlock Holmes, if you ruin my reputation with what is a very nice and accommodating club…"

"Lydia Bainbridge, I will do you proud," he vowed. "Your friends will beg you know where you met such an interesting and refined lady. And you will tell them the truth: that I was an actress of the finest calibre, but that I have settled down recently with a handsome young doctor and can't be found on stage anymore."

"You're mad," Lydia said, while I flushed with pleasure. Holmes caught my eye and winked. I had to look down at my hands, lest I get up and kiss him senseless.

"I think he could do it," Wilder said, propping her chin on her hand and regarding Holmes thoughtfully. "He has a lovely, fine face, and the porcelain skin of a debutante."

"Thank you," Holmes said.

"A little practice with the voice," she went on, "and, perhaps, Lydia, you'd better do his make-up. I think we could get him in the door. Then he could sort this whole matter out quietly."

"Better than bringing in the police," Holmes agreed.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "I should have expected this when I approached you," she said. "You would do anything to get into skirts."

Holmes smirked. "Into them, but not under them. That is Dr Watson's department."

I blushed deeper. "Holmes," I chided.

"Very well," Lydia said. "We usually go on Thursday nights, after the show. Will that give you enough time to assemble an outfit?"

"Oh, more than enough. I like the idea of you doing me up, though, Lydia," Holmes said. "Thank you, Wilder."

"Not at all," Wilder said, smirking.

 

Holmes spent the next three days putting together an outfit worthy of his foray into critical, scrutinising company. He went out and bought every periodical he could find that featured women's fashion, and compared them with the dresses in his wardrobe. One of them, bottle-green silk, disappeared for a day and reappeared again with the bill from his tailor; he showed me that its sleeves had been altered, as had its neckline, and new lace adorned its sleeve cuffs.

Thursday arrived, and Holmes lamented that I couldn't come with him. I had accompanied him on most of his cases as his assistant and note-keeper, but Lydia had made it clear that a man, presenting as a man, would never be allowed through the door of her exclusive Hyde Park-adjacent club.

"Meet me for dinner afterwards," he begged.

"It'll be midnight," I protested, "if you even finish the job by then!"

"Watson, there are a dozen restaurants in Piccadilly open until two," he explained. "Where do you think an actor dines after a show?"

"At home?"

"I'm not wasting this opportunity," Holmes said. "Midnight, Piccadilly Circus. Don't be late, and I won't either."

He went to the theatre with his dress in a box, and I sat down to wait.

I had waited for Sherlock Holmes before, but it had been months since he'd gone to the Lyceum without me. I remembered the anxiety I'd felt that first night he'd asked me to meet him, uncertain what sort of encounter I was in for. It had also been thrilling to wait and wonder, and the wait had been worth it (though the interruption had been less than ideal, in several ways). I anticipated this would, once again, not disappoint.

I ate a light dinner, not trusting myself to make it to midnight on an empty stomach, and then read a book for a while. I took a short nap a little after nine, and at ten past eleven I put on my overcoat. I caught a cab at the corner of Baker Street and the Marylebone Road, and was standing in Piccadilly Circus a little before twelve.

The city was dazzling, the lights of the theatres and restaurants and nightclubs still sparkling, and the movement of cabs and pedestrians around me was like the ebb and flow of the tide. With my hands in my pockets and my head tipped back, I admired what I could see of the stars in contrast to the gaslight. 

A hand slipped into the crook of my elbow, and I realised I was no longer alone in the crowd. A tall, elegant woman in a bottle-green gown, black coat, and enormous fur collar was standing beside me, her side pressed up against mine.

"Beautiful night, isn't it, Doctor Watson?" she asked in a low, melodious voice.

I was speechless. I knew it was Holmes—his hands usually gave him away, at least to me, and even gloved I recognised their grip—but his transformation was so complete that I couldn't quite see him. His make-up was perfect, and deliberately softened the lines of his face. His auburn wig was lush and artfully coiffed, and he wore a little hat with a mesh veil that distracted the eye. He smelt of white jessamine, and I felt my heart rate pick up. He was stunning. I hadn't experienced such a strong attraction to a woman in quite a while, though I wondered if part of it was the knowledge that, beneath the bodice and skirts, I was already familiar with his lithe, masculine body.

"It is," I managed finally, when Holmes looked at me expectantly and I realised it had been nearly a minute since he'd appeared. "You look…"

He smiled, rouged lips curling. "Thank you," he said softly, and batted his long eyelashes.

"Did you solve the case?"

"I have made progress," Holmes said. "I'll tell you about it over dinner."

We made our way, arm in arm, to a glittering restaurant off Leicester Square. Holmes allowed the attendant to take his coat and hat, and I followed suit, still rather in a daze. He was stunning. The orphaned governess had been charming, certainly, but this character, this lady— she was of another world. She commanded my attention; I couldn't take my eyes off her as we were led to our table. I pulled out the chair for her, unthinking, and Holmes met my eyes as he sat down.

I blushed and hurried to my own seat. When I was seated, Holmes reached out and took my hand. He gazed at me over the wine glasses, smiling. The waiter cleared his throat.

"Château Latour," Holmes said, without taking his eyes off me. "What do you think, John?"

"Ah, excellent choice," I managed. I glanced at the waiter, who raised an eyebrow. "You heard the lady."

He bowed and disappeared.

"Sherlock," I whispered. It was one thing to cozy up to him in the privacy of our digs at Baker Street, or even bear the knowing smiles of his fellow actors, but to hold his hand in  _ public _ . He was stroking my knuckles. "What do I call you?"

"Anything you like," he said.

I grinned. "But surely your character has a name. She was introduced to a room full of society ladies. What did they call her?"

He licked his lips and glanced down, eyelashes fluttering. The effect was magnificent. "Violet," he said.

"Violet," I sighed.

"You're looking at me like…" He hesitated and squeezed my fingers. "Like you did when I first shook your hand."

"You're magnificent. I'm basking in this first encounter, again."

"You haven't grown tired of the usual Holmes, have you?"

"By Jove, no!" I took hold of his other hand. "I could never tire of you. How could I? When you… do this for me?"

"Well, it isn't  _ for _ you, strictly speaking," he reminded me.

"Dinner is," said I. "You wanted to show off, Sh— Violet."

"I wanted you to see me."

"I wanted to see you."

"What do you think?"

"You're fishing for a compliment, now," I laughed.

"Why shouldn't I? You give them so freely."

"I mean every one." I lifted his hand to my lips and kissed it. "You're gorgeous, every bit of you. Every layer."

He grinned. It was a little too broad for a well-brought-up woman. My heart turned over in my chest.

The waiter reappeared and offered me a look at the wine label. I nodded and he uncorked it. I waited for him to pour a finger into my glass, swirled it and smelled it, and let it slide over my tongue. Holmes watched with interest.

"Lovely," I said. The waited bowed again and filled Holmes's glass, then mine. We touched them together, the glass ringing, and sipped. Holmes's eyes closed for a moment in pleasure.

I ordered dinner, three courses for appearances, and as soon as the waiter was gone I said, "Take your gloves off."

"Bugger," he muttered and tugged them off while I snickered.

"And don't say that! I thought you were good at this."

"Aren't I?" He put his gloves safely away in his gown. His long, smooth hands were just as elegant bare. I took them in mine again, drunk on the possibilities. I laced our fingers together. I wished he wore a wedding ring I could fondle and imagine was mine, and then shied away from such a fantasy. Holmes and I were deeply enamoured with one another, I felt sure of that, but marriage? I doubted he'd marry  _ anyone _ , even if it were allowed.

"Now, tell me about the club," I said, pushing the thought aside. "What did you discover?"

"Well," Holmes began, and proceeded to regale me with the story. Over the next hour I listened to him tell of his infiltration of the club, his investigation of the happenings in the cloak room, and his close call with a persistent young woman who desired to become better acquainted with him. I laughed until I ached at the image of him trying to demure without being rude, to keep her far enough away that she wouldn't catch onto the truth.

 

When we finally left the restaurant, it was nearly two in the morning. The streets were quiet, in between the late night pleasure-seekers and the early-morning labourers. We walked the length of Regent Street before we even saw a cab, and by then we were already halfway home. Holmes was starting to lag; his shoes pained him. He leaned on me, his arm through mine, and though we had walked arm-in-arm like that many times before, this felt special. People would make different—half-correct—assumptions about us if they saw us. He was my sweetheart, and, in disguise, everyone could know it.

"It  _ is _ a shame," he said, as if in agreement.

"I wish I could be seen with you as yourself!" I said. "How did you—?"

"You had grown melancholy," he said. "You looked down at my hand and then at my skirts, and then you looked around for an observer."

"Well," said I, indignant. "I don't wish you to dress up any more than you like, but I wish I could— I wish we could go out together and— and have people know and not… mind."

"That's putting it lightly," Holmes said. "John, you should know that I don't… regret… any of this. Us. I wouldn't have it any differently."

"Even the law?"

"Perhaps the law."

We turned the corner onto Baker Street. Holmes didn't speak again until we were on the doorstep of 221. As I mounted the stair, he turned me toward him, saying, "Wait, John." The height of the step meant I was just slightly taller than him. He cupped my face in his soft gloved hands and smiled up at me in the gas-light. Then he drew me close and kissed me. It was chaste and it didn't last more than a second, but my lips tingled and my heart sang. "Now," he said, "take me to bed, Doctor Watson."

We went upstairs quietly, careful not to disturb our housekeeper, and I locked the sitting room door behind us. I took off my jacket while Holmes lit the lamp, and then helped him out of his long, fur-trimmed coat. When I turned back, he was perched delicately on the settee, his skirts all spread out, leaning back and gazing heatedly at me. I blushed under the scrutiny and crossed the room to fix him a drink. He accepted the offer of brandy with an elegantly outstretched hand. I watched him sip; he met my eyes, challenging.

I went to my knees on the carpet before him. His shoes were not as delicate as they looked; they were suited to a man's size and weight, but their buttons were precious all the same. I unfastened each one and slid the left shoe off his foot. His toes curled in appreciation on the carpet as I unfastened and removed the right shoe. 

"Oh, John," he sighed, stretching his legs. I took his stockinged feet in my hands one at a time and rubbed them until he was groaning. His knees had fallen open. I skimmed my hands up the backs of his calves, delving under his skirts. He smirked down at me, still perfectly coiffed and made-up. It was an incredible illusion, which wavered as he smiled his familiar smile. He lifted his legs when I reached his knees, and allowed me to unfasten his suspenders. His stockings came free in my hands.

The hair on his legs was going in all the wrong directions, so I smoothed it down and kissed my way up his calf. As I went, I pushed his skirts up around his knees, and then his thighs. He spread his legs wide, giving me room, and his unoccupied hand found the top of my head. He carded his fingers through my hair and let out an audible breath at the press of my lips to the inside of his knee. I heard the glass of brandy being put down on the table, and then he was tugging his rustling skirts and cotton petticoat up even higher. I had my hands inside the ruffled leg-openings of his drawers, but I removed them to slide my palms up his covered thighs to the crotch of his drawers.

He was wearing ladies' drawers, for the sake of the convenience, I guessed. They had a opening at the junction of the legs that gaped as I pushed his thighs apart. His bollocks hung heavy and his prick was already hard. I dipped my fingers into the humid opening of his drawers and caressed the tender skin of his inner thighs. My own erection strained against the buttons of my trousers; my heart was thundering in my chest. 

The smell of his arousal was strong and heady, and I moaned quite unconsciously. I took his prick in hand and it jumped with excitement. I had to duck down under the hem of his skirt to touch the half-uncovered tip of it with my tongue; Holmes's fingers tightened in my hair. His breathing was shallow and rapid. I tasted the pulse of excitement that sprang from him. I sucked him deeper, burying my face between his thighs, my cheeks brushing against the edges of his drawers. I could hardly breathe, but I hardly wanted to. I was intoxicated by him: his disguise, his adventurousness, his ardor and his affection. He pushed up against my face, thrusting his cock into my mouth, and I began to match his thrusts.

"John," he gasped, even as he clung to me and I swallowed him down, "have me like this, please!"

I pulled away to answer, "Yes, by Jove," but couldn't resist taking him in again, sucking him until he was trembling and squirming. My fingers wandered, fondling his bollocks and delving between his cheeks. He slid forward on the settee, encouraging me, and I slipped my finger into my mouth for a moment before I pressed it inside him. I reached for his prostate and he cried out, cock jerking.

"Come on," he said, pulling my hair, "that's enough— please, that'll do—"

"Right," said I, letting him go and pushing myself painfully to my feet. My leg ached, but it was worth it. Holmes slid sideways, sprawling across the settee, and hooked one bare heel over the back. His skirts were all rumpled and pooled around his waist, and the opening of his drawers put him on display. I bent to kiss him and he wrapped his arms around my neck, kissing back with enthusiasm. His tongue was sweet and slick between my lips. I had to pull away. "Be right back."

"Oh, John," he groaned, disappointed as I disentangled myself. I hurried into his bedroom, rifled his drawers, and came back with the Vaseline. I slicked up two fingers and handed him the jar.

"Lovely as you look," said I, as he scooped out his own portion and began, with the other hand, to unfasten my trousers, "there are some lengths to which I do not intend to go."

"Fair play," he agreed, and freed my prick from its confines. His slick hand around it was a kind of heaven, and I wavered, the pleasure spiking in my blood. I regained my senses and slid two slippery fingers back inside him. He wriggled on my fingers, jerking me quickly, until we were at risk of finishing like that.

"Now," he said, letting go and grasping the arm of the settee behind him instead. I pulled my fingers out and replaced them with the head of my prick. "Oh, now," he said again, eyes fluttering closed, and when I breached him he moaned loudly, his back arching.

"Hush," I gasped, seated deep inside him, the flies of my trousers against the crotch of his drawers. His prick bobbed between us, smearing wetness on his chemise.

"I can barely breathe," he replied. His fingers scrabbled at the front of his wig. "John, I have to— please, do you mind—"

I rocked my hips and said, "No, get rid of it," as he pried the hairpiece away from his head. He dropped it rather carelessly to the floor and I made a note to make sure it wasn't left there overnight. It was a lovely wig. His own hair was damp with sweat and plastered to his skull. His face, still delicately painted, looked strange and dramatic now in contrast. I leaned down to kiss him again, trying to rub the rouge off his lips with my own. He grasped me around the waist with his powerful thighs.

"Fuck me," he demanded against my mouth, and sucked hard on my lower lip.

I obliged, bracing myself against the seat of the settee and setting a rapid pace. We were both on edge, riled up by the disguise, and I could feel him tensing already. He settled one hand on the back of my neck, staring up into my eyes, while the other slipped beneath his petticoats again and grasped his prick. He tugged himself quickly, hips jerking up into my thrusts; I watched him blush and bite his lip, his face twitching as his pleasure mounted. Mine was gathering fast. I was still almost completely dressed, only my cock out and even then not for long.

He gasped, "Faster," and I thrust faster, pounding into him. His eyes closed and he hissed, "Yes, oh, yes," and then I felt him tremble and spasm, and his orgasm tightened his body around me. I followed him at once, spilling deep inside him as he spurted between us.

We sagged, going limp, and I kissed his face weakly, tasting his make-up. He ran his fingers through my hair and breathed against my shoulder. Finally he said, "I have to get out of this kit, John, or I'll expire."

"Yes, sorry," said I, pulling away. I eased myself out of him and staggered to my feet. Rather than do up my trousers, I unfastened my braces and took them off. Holmes giggled as he sat up, his hand pressed to his ribs.

"Bloody hell," he said. "Next time I'll go without the corset."

I picked up the wig and placed it carefully on the dressing table as we went into his bedroom. He turned his back to me, indicating that I should unfasten the long line of buttons that kept him confined. I couldn't resist kissing the back of his neck as I went. The bottle-green gown parted and fell away, and Holmes pushed it to the floor and stepped out. I picked up the dress and draped it over the chair, while he untied his petticoat, revealing the aforementioned pair of drawers over a tightly tied corset. I helped him pull the drawers off and fingered their lacy hems as I folded them up. Finally, he could unhook his corset.

"Oh, God," he groaned, as it came loose. He took a deep breath and sighed, and I put the corset aside with the dress. His chemise underneath was almost as long as his nightshirt. Nevertheless, he tugged it off over his head, tossed it away, and stood naked before me.

"You're somewhat behind, John," said he, starting on my collar. Together we divested me of my waistcoat, shirt, vest, drawers, socks, and shoes, and then I was down to my skin. Holmes embraced me, pressing our bare bodies together, and kissed my face and neck. His fingers touched my shoulder scar briefly. Then he sighed. "I have to wash this off," he muttered, touching his own cheek. "Will you wait for me?"

"I'll try," I said, feeling the drag of sleep. 

He laughed and kissed my mouth. "I won't be five minutes."

True to his word, he was climbing into bed with me only a few minutes later. We were both in clean nightshirts now, but he pushed them up so that he could tangle our legs together. We lay entwined in the dark, kissing gently. I was halfway asleep already.

"You were marvellous," I murmured, stroking his drying hair. I could tell he had ducked his head under the water in the basin. "Do you miss being on stage?"

"Yes," he admitted. "It was everything I was, everything I had, everything I did. For so long. Sometimes it feels strange not to have a call at the theatre. But this is so— this is so satisfying. Solving puzzles. I wouldn't give it up."

"Will you have to go back to the club again?"

"I don't think so," he said, kissing my nose. "Everything that still needs sorted can be done by Lydia herself, or Wilder. They will confront the guilty party, or have the club's administration take care of it. They just needed the proof to act."

"Shame," I said. "I enjoyed my introduction to Miss Violet."

I felt him smile. "Well, she needn't be gone for good."

I tightened my arm around him, relishing the press of his slim body against mine. "Another time, perhaps," said I. "I also enjoy having my Holmes back."

He kissed me again and wriggled around until he had turned over in my arms, his back to my chest. I tucked my knees up behind his and nuzzled the nape of his neck.

"My master of disguise," I whispered.

He clutched my hand, pressing it to his chest.

"My S. Scott."

 


End file.
